


To The Letter

by edenbound



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-26
Updated: 2020-04-26
Packaged: 2021-03-01 22:13:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23864317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/edenbound/pseuds/edenbound
Summary: Crowley tries to make something for Aziraphale. It does not go very well.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 64





	To The Letter

**Author's Note:**

> I am posting this REAL QUICK before bed so my wife can see it, so if you see any typos, look away.
> 
> ETA: she spotted one typo which I have fixed. I'll get any others soon. I GOTTA SLEEP.

So, Crowley thinks, surveying the ingredients set in front of him.

It can't be that hard, he thinks.

Humans do it all the time.

The thing is, Aziraphale likes food. He likes all kinds of food, and he can savour every morsel of joy out of each bite -- the flavour, the texture, even the presentation. A cone of chips wrapped in newspaper is as delicious to Aziraphale as the most artisanal skin-on fries in the poshest gastropub (an invention of Crowley's, designed to provoke snobbery and gentrification; he has been shocked by the results of what was, in fact, an afterthought). 

But more delicious still is something that has been made by someone who actually cares about what they're making. Someone who tastes as they go along, who thinks about who might eat their food, who enjoys the whole process from start to finish (except perhaps the washing up afterwards). That's why Crowley's never tried miracling up a meal for Aziraphale: he could no doubt put on a splendid feast, but it would all be hollow to Aziraphale, worse than a shop-bought Battenburg cake from Mr Kipling's factories.

He can do better than that.

He discarded the idea of crepes out of hand: simple though they may sound, he knows Aziraphale is particular, both about crepes specifically and about the importance of perfection when it comes to simplest cuisine. That said, Crowley is a realist and he's well aware that he's not ready for anything particularly complicated. Anything for which he can think of the name in French is therefore off-limits.

What he has settled for is brownies, partly because they sound easy enough, partly because Aziraphale once insisted on feeding him a bite of brownie and the gooey goodness was in fact quite pleasant, and finally because he is vaguely aware that certain nefarious substances can be added to brownies for secret consumption by innocent-looking humans. He's not going to do that for Aziraphale, of course, but the whiff of mischief is enough to attract him. And -- Crowley can do anything a human can do. He can do it better. He can taste it and enjoy the process (sort of), and he can definitely think of who is going to eat his food, loving him and loving him until his heart might burst. He can also follow the instructions _to the letter_.

It _was_ going quite well.

"Ssssolidify," he hisses at the tray, glaring through the oven glass. "Hurry _up_."

The top is crisp, in fact. The rest... the rest is not. And this is the third batch, and Aziraphale --

Is coming through the front door now with a bottle of wine and a smile on his face. "Crowley, I thought -- oh, what is that _smell_?"

"'ssss nothing," Crowley says, quickly, standing in front of the oven and miracling away the evidence (aside from the tray still in the oven).

"It's not nothing, it's _divine_ , has someone been -- " Aziraphale sets the wine down as he comes into the kitchen. "It's _you_. You've been baking, Crowley!"

"Haven't," he says, unconvincingly. "Don't know what you're talking about."

"I believe you're being self-conscious, my dear," Aziraphale says, after another moment. "I don't mean to push, but -- "

"It isn't _working,_ " Crowley blurts.

"What isn't? The oven? Can't you just -- "

"The brownies. They're not... being proper brownies." Crowley stalks away from the oven and perches on a kitchen stool, modern and stylish and like most things in his flat, uncomfortable.

"Let me see..." Aziraphale says.

There's a rustle and a _bustling_ noise that Crowley has always associated with Aziraphale deciding to fix something. He chances a glance up. The angel somehow has oven mitts on, and Crowley wouldn't be surprised to see him manifest a 'Kiss the Cook' apron: it would seem to be his style. Crowley can't watch. It's stupid, this whole idea was stupid, this is a disaster --

"Oh, Crowley."

His head snaps up. "What?"

The da -- bles -- the _bloody_ creature has a fork in the tray, scooping up a forkful of gooey unsolidified brownie batter. He's clearly used a miracle to bring it down to an edible temperature. It doesn't seem to be his first forkful. He pops it into his mouth and closes his eyes for a moment, savouring it the way Crowley has seen him savour dozens -- no, hundreds of meals. "Oh, my dear... this is sublime, you know."

"It didn't even bake properly."

"That doesn't matter," Aziraphale says, firmly. "It's wonderful."

"But it didn't work!"

"Yes, it did. Come here, taste it." He loads up another forkful, catching a drip with his finger and licking it clean without self-consciousness. He holds the fork out until Crowley finally goes over and opens his mouth begrudgingly. He makes sure to glower a bit as well, but Aziraphale is undeterred, and -- and it does taste wonderful, better than the one he remembers, thick and sweet. Aziraphale beams at him. "See?"

"You're going to say something embarrassing now," Crowley predicts. "I can feel it."

Aziraphale simply presses a kiss to his cheek, quite close to his mouth. "Don't worry, dearest. I won't tell you it's good because it's made with love, though it's quite true."

"You just _did_ say that."

"I said I _wasn't_ going to say that."

"It's the same thing!"

Aziraphale shakes his head, scooping up another bite of brownie. "Where shall we order from this evening, dearest? I feel like staying in."

Crowley frowns. "You're changing the subject."

"Do you disagree?"

Crowley thinks about it. "We could," he says, carefully, "go shopping, and make our own."

Aziraphale's smile is _far too much_ , gooey and sticky-sweet. Crowley's alright with that, apparently.


End file.
